Two minutes.
"Anna, message back."
Sent.
No response.
I called her. It rang a few times, got rejected, then showed powered off.
She'd turned it off.
I stood in the middle of the living room, phone in hand, feeling something slip through my fingers—like sand, the tighter I gripped, the faster it went.
This shouldn't matter.
Last night was great. I wasn't against one-night stands. Hell, that's how I always did it—enjoy the moment, then move on, clean and simple.
But Anna had ignited something in me. Like... after ten years of darkness, a sudden beam of light. And now, she'd snuffed it out herself.
I sighed, tossed the phone on the sofa.
Maybe it was for the best.
She went back to her world, the normal one I didn't fit in. I went back to mine, the dangerous one she should stay away from. Everyone safe.
But why did my chest feel so tight?
I headed back to the bedroom, started dressing. Pants, shirt, movements automatic.
Halfway through, I spotted something on the pillow—a strand of her hair, red, stark against the white.
I picked it up, examined it between my fingers.
The only trace she left, besides the hundred bucks and thatdamn note.
I slipped the hair into my pants pocket—ridiculous, even to me—then kept dressing.
Buttoning the shirt halfway, my phone rang. I lunged for it, but the screen showed Ivan.
Disappointment hit like ice water.
"What?" I answered, colder than I meant.
"Pakhan, about the Romanov family..."
"Later," I cut him off. "Check someone for me."
"Who?"
"Anna Parker," I said her name. "21, New York Daily intern. I need to know where she is now."
Ivan paused a second—he rarely heard me like this.
"Got it, Pakhan. When do you want it?"
"Fast as you can."
I hung up, eyed the money on the table.
